by Lisa Walker
I scoop some more and a triangle of plastic comes into view. Further scraping produces a plastic sleeve. A message from Luna. Heart thumping, I pull it out and wipe off the ice-cream to reveal an envelope inside. I slide it out.
Scrawled across the front of the envelope in felt pen it says, found this in the boot of my car. I open the envelope. Inside is a McSushi wrapper. I turn the McSushi wrapper over and examine the back, but there’s nothing there. I sniff it. It smells of wasabi.
It’s a message—apparently an important one—but what does it mean? My head hurts. Why did Luna brave the freezer to give it to me? What was she trying to tell me? Maybe it will make more sense in the morning …
I shower and climb between my sheets.
It was beautiful in the surf that night. There was no one else out. I tried not to think of what might be underneath me. But then a wave came and I was gliding over the moon-shiny darkness. It was just as amazing as Rosco had said.
I breathe deeply, trying to control it, but the fury rises so fast I can hardly breathe.
24
In the morning, I slip on shorts and a T-shirt, let myself out of the flat and pad down the street, my feet bare on the cold pavement. The skyscrapers are dull today—clouds drift in their mirrored windows. On a fine day they’ll burn your retinas if you’re not careful. Kevin trots behind me in his jacket, his nails clicking on the cement.
The sound of the surf is almost deafening as I step onto the sand. Massive walls of grey water roll in, crash onto the beach and suck back out. I jog along to the headland, the southerly wind whipping at my hair. A few drops of rain splatter my glasses. Summer is gone—today we are back to winter.
Reaching my favourite viewing position, I squat, hugging my knees. The car park is full already—there are as many spectators as surfers. Guys in hoodies with zoom lenses perch on the rocks ready for the money shot. ‘Corduroy lines … hollow … walls …’ Their voices drift over to me. I pull out my phone and add more words to my list.
Surfers run past me at full pelt, eager to fling themselves into the ocean. Their zinc-cream-plastered faces are fixed on the sea. If you get in the way of these guys, they’ll run you down. There’s a fever in the air; you can see it latch on to them as they get out of their cars. The ones on their way out of the surf are different. Their eyes are bloodshot, their movements loose and unhurried, their zinc cream faded. They’ve had their fix.
An extra-large set of waves roars towards one guy caught inside the break. Seeing what’s in front of him, he paddles faster and faster. I urge him on, but it’s too late. The wave smashes on top of him. I hold my breath in sympathy—he’s under for a long time—and gasp as he pops up the other side. But there’s no rest, another wave is coming. Again, he paddles—my breath steadies as he makes it over.
I think of Rosco in the car last night. Of the way he held my hand. How I felt that one time he kissed me. Then I remember what Maya said—you need to commit more. Ask yourself: what’s the worst that can happen?
I watch a few surfers take off on vertical faces, get smashed beneath the whitewash and limp from the water, worse for wear. Broken pieces of surfboards drift in on the foam, their owners left to catch a wave on the part still attached to their leg.
You take risks, you get smashed, but … you survive.
Rosco is poring over the Gold Coast Times in the office kitchen when I get in. My heart does a rapid tap dance at the sight of him. Commit more. Don’t run away.
He looks up and our eyes lock. ‘Welcome back.’
I adjust my glasses.
Rosco turns the page.
It seems that if there’s an elephant lurking in the room we are both going to ignore it. Oh, that elephant over there. Nope, can’t see it. Here I am ready to take a risk and Rosco is calmly reading the paper. I’m not sure what I was expecting after the way I jumped out of the car last night. And perhaps I was wrong, perhaps nothing was going to happen. I swallow the lump in my throat and adopt a brisk, businesslike air, but the open paper catches my eye.
The Ajay arm case has been relegated to page three. He is still missing. There are no new leads, but a lot of speculation. No one has any idea what the fake arm means.
Next to a picture of Rochelle lunching with an unidentified man at a Surfers Paradise café, the headline reads, Police Still Searching for Ajay: Guru’s wife set to inherit multi-million-dollar business. The picture shows only the back of the man’s head. He has dark hair and broad shoulders. Rochelle is leaning over the table exposing her sensational bosom. Apparently she is coping well.
Police are still ‘following a number of leads’. That means they haven’t found Luna. A sub-story queries, Who Will Be the Next Face of McSushi? It appears Ajay’s contract has concluded. A few predictable faces accompany the story—Chris Hemsworth, Guy Sebastian, Margot Robbie …
‘What do you reckon?’ Rosco doesn’t look up from the paper. ‘Do you think this Luna’s knocked him off?’
‘No.’ My hand goes to my shoulder bag—her envelope is inside. ‘She’s a hippie love child, not a killer.’
‘Uh huh.’ He looks up and assumes his usual instructor’s tone. ‘Let’s say he was knocked off. What type of person do you think would have done it?’
I know what he’s getting at—murderers won’t always be sharpening their daggers, wearing eye-patches and casting shifty looks the way they do in Nancy Drew. But Luna …
‘Any thoughts?’ says Rosco.
I look at the newspaper. ‘He’s the kind of guy who makes enemies.’
‘Jealous husband?’
I gaze at the picture of Rochelle. ‘Or jealous wife?’
Rosco grunts. ‘It’s possible. Still, not our problem now, I suppose. I’ll let the police worry about that one.’ He folds the paper.
‘Can I keep it?’
Rosco hands me the paper. His eyes question me, but then his phone rings.
Back at my desk I pull out the envelope I found in the ice-cream, open it and look at the McSushi wrapper. I’m hoping I missed something last night, but it’s still just a McSushi wrapper. I know what Rosco will say if I show it to him. Not our problem. Give it to the police.
I remember the cop at Ocean World. He’s already suspicious of me—if I give it to him questions will be asked. Questions I don’t want to answer, like, why did she give it to you? Because I’m a member of her activist group? It’s the only reason that makes sense. But that will bring me closer to having to tell a direct lie about Luna’s call the night before the arm incident. My mind turns to the fake arm again. What’s with that?
I google ‘fake arms’ and get a list of websites offering information about prostheses. I type fake arm into Instagram. This is slightly more promising. A hashtag #fakearm has some funny photos—people hiding their phone on a school desk with a fake arm, and arms hanging out of car boots. I scroll down further and find a picture of a fake arm lying on some grass. As well as #fakearm, it’s also hashtagged #fakearmsagainstharassment. The poster is called sharkgirl and their profile picture is a shark. There’s no other information. I search #fakearmsagainstharassment but nothing else comes up. Dead end.
I slip the envelope back in my bag with the newspaper article. What does Luna expect me to do about it? She’s the main suspect in what could be a murder investigation. Maybe she thought killing Ajay would save whales. It’s certainly stopped him endorsing McSushi.
I think back to how she looked in the ice-cream cabinet—nervous and cold. But who wouldn’t be nervous if they were being hunted by the police—by grouchy-faced Dan Ferris? I file the envelope in the too-hard basket. For now, I need to concentrate on keeping my job. I glance over at Rosco and our eyes meet. He looks away first.
I also need to figure out what, if anything, is going down with me and Rosco. Ask yourself: what’s the worst that can happen …
The day goes by without incident; as does the next. Rosco is briskly professional. I’m beginning to think I imagined the Spark between
us in the car. Maybe I did. In one way this is a relief, but in another way I wish I hadn’t jumped out of the car quite so quickly. It would be good to know if Rosco is still a Notable Exception.
On Tuesday afternoon, Rosco goes out for a meeting. I yawn. It’s been such a slow day I’m half-asleep. Maybe a quick headstand will wake me up. I’ve been practising every day—taking my feet off the wall for short periods, wobbling, putting them back. It’s become a superstition: the day I can do a headstand without the wall my life will be perfect.
Putting my head on the carpeted floor next to my desk, I lift my legs, slowly taking them off the wall. I’m almost balanced when the door bangs. I squeak and fall over.
‘Forgot my car keys.’ Rosco looks at my empty chair then at the floor. ‘Is this what you usually get up to when I’m out of the office?’
I climb to my feet, adjusting my glasses. ‘No, hardly ever. You caught me at a bad time.’ More explanation seems to be called for. ‘I was doing a headstand—it helps me concentrate.’
‘Uh huh.’ He swings his car keys on his finger. ‘Don’t get yourself into any position you can’t get out of. I’ll be gone for a few hours. I wouldn’t like to think of you here with no one to untangle you.’
I flush. ‘That only happened once.’
‘Give me a call if it happens again. I could do with a laugh.’ He winks and shuts the door behind him.
I stare after him. Is he flirting with me? I decide not.
On Wednesday I go out for lunch and find the local McSushi pulling down its Ajay posters. By Thursday, new ones are up. Stopping in the street, I stare at them in shock. It isn’t Chris, Guy or Margot.
It’s Maya.
She is wearing a green bikini, carrying a surfboard and smiling her gap-toothed smile. Australian longboard champion Maya Cahill is plastered across the top. McSushi gives me the energy I need when I’m on a wave, reads the endorsement. Oh Maya, bad idea. I bet her father’s behind this.
I come back in to find Rosco on the phone. He’s doing some fast talking, pulling at his hair, like he always does when he’s tense. I pause for a second as I go past his door and catch a fragment of conversation. ‘Not too much longer, Kenny.’
Who is this Kenny? It’s the third time I’ve heard his name and each time Rosco’s got all worked up. When he puts the phone down I walk over to his door. ‘Who’s Kenny?’
Rosco looks up. ‘Kenny the King.’
I look at him blankly.
‘You haven’t heard of him?’
I shake my head.
‘Huh. Thought everyone knew Kenny. The landlord. He owns half of Surfers. You really haven’t heard of him?’
I shake my head. If Kenny’s the landlord … ‘Are you having financial problems?’
Rosco looks tired. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’
I feel bad. I’d no idea things were difficult. ‘I’m sorry I made you drop the McSushi case. And lost us Rochelle. I didn’t know.’
‘Olivia, I told you, dropping McSushi had nothing to do with you, alright? It wasn’t working out. And you did your best with the Ajay thing. You did well, in fact. Don’t worry about it. That’s my job.’
‘I had wondered.’
‘What?’
‘What your job was.’
Rosco’s phone rings. ‘Well, now you know.’
For the rest of the week, I continue to be a model employee. I stop in at the supermarket every day, pausing in front of the ice-cream section, but the frosty figure of Luna never reappears. I feel uneasy, like invisible events are happening around me. Luna’s envelope is always on my mind, but remains in the too-hard basket.
I almost show it to Rosco several times, but the idea of having to go to the police puts me off. Whichever way I look at it, it’s still just a McSushi wrapper.
Brandon doesn’t call. I hadn’t planned on seeing him again, but it would have been nice to be asked. My Instagram feed shows Frannie and Abbey riding elephants and swimming in waterfalls. I have nothing to post—#dullweekend.
On Monday, I come into work to find Brad Cahill sitting across the desk from Rosco. Rosco glances up, but doesn’t smile. Something serious is going on. Brad half swivels in his chair, sees me and turns back to Rosco.
‘Sit down, Olivia,’ says Rosco. ‘Brad’s here about Maya.’
My stomach turns cold, like it already knows what he’s going to say.
‘She’s gone missing.’
25
I slide into a chair, my mouth dry. Scenarios flash through my head, none of them good.
Brad’s face is drawn and his eyes are red. ‘She was getting it back together. She’s been training four, five hours every day. And getting the McSushi endorsement—it was the biggest deal she’s ever had. They’re going to sponsor her whole world tour; all she needs to do is have their logo on her wetsuit …’ His voice trails off.
‘Have the police been told?’ I ask.
Brad darts me a contemptuous look. ‘Girls that age—they wander off all the time. “We’ll make a few inquiries”,’ he mimics. ‘They’re useless.’
‘No letter?’
Brad rolls his eyes.
Just asking. ‘What about her boyfriend?’
‘He’s out of the picture,’ Brad snaps.
‘Does he know anything, though?’ I press.
Brad’s face goes red. ‘I told you—he’s out of the picture. The police have spoken to him; he hasn’t seen her for a week. If I get you on this job I don’t want you wasting my time sniffing around the Goldsworths. Maya knew they were out of bounds.’ Brad clenches his hands, the muscles standing up on his forearms.
I have a feeling Maya mightn’t have been as compliant boyfriend-wise as he thinks. I saw them together at the RSL; they were pretty keen on each other. ‘You’re the boss,’ I say.
Rosco shakes hands with Brad at the door and grasps his shoulder. ‘We’ll get onto to it straight away. If she can be found, we’ll find her.’
Brad glances back at me. ‘Find my girl.’
‘I’ll do everything I can, Mr Cahill. She’s a great girl.’
He half-smiles. ‘Yes, she makes me proud.’
Something about the way he says it gets my back up. What if she didn’t make you proud? Would you still want to find her?
Rosco comes back in and sits opposite me. ‘What do you think?’
I chew the inside of my lip. ‘She might have run away. I would, if I had a father like him. On the other hand …’ I don’t like to voice what’s on my mind, but Rosco knows. We’re both thinking about what happened to the last face of McSushi. It could be a coincidence, but then again … ‘I’ll get down to Byron Bay.’
‘Talk to everyone who knows her.’
‘The boyfriend?’
‘He’s first.’
It takes me all day to track James Goldsworth down. I finally score with one of the surfers towelling off in the Wategos Beach car park. ‘That’s Goldie out there.’ He points towards the horizon—there’s only one person left in the water. He’s lying face-down on his surfboard right out the back, letting wave after wave go by. The sun is setting and the waves are turning from gold to black.
Sunset is shark feeding time so I’m not too keen, but it doesn’t look like James is getting out any time soon. I struggle into my too-tight wetsuit—I really should buy a new one—and paddle out.
‘Hey,’ I call as I get closer. I don’t want to startle him. It looks like he might be asleep, although that seems unlikely. ‘James?’
He lifts his head from the board, his face in shadow. ‘Yeah?’ His tone isn’t welcoming.
As I get closer I see the dark bruise around his eye. His eyelid is swollen and purple and a yellowish tinge spreads all the way down to his cheekbone. Someone’s given him a good whack. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Maya.’
His face twitches. He puts his forehead back on the board. ‘I’ve already talked to the police.’
‘I’m not the police. I’m a private investigato
r. You might be able to help.’
‘I don’t know where Maya is.’ His voice is muffled by the board. ‘I wish I did. I haven’t seen her since …’ He sits up. ‘I haven’t seen her since someone took photos of us together at the RSL.’ His voice is sharper now. He focuses on me. ‘That would be you, I take it?’
I change the subject. ‘Who gave you the black eye?’
‘Who do you reckon? Same guy who’s paying your bills.’ He spits the words out.
This isn’t going as well as I’d hoped. ‘Don’t you want to help Maya?’
‘Look—the only thing that would help Maya would be getting a divorce from her father. I can’t help. I don’t know where she is.’
The light is fading, turning the water dark beneath us. I pull my legs up onto my board. ‘I’m sorry, James, about the photos. It’s my job.’
‘What kind of a job is that?’
‘A dirty job some of the time, I guess. But I took it because I wanted to do something good. Finding Maya would be good. I like her.’
There’s a long pause before he speaks. ‘Everyone likes Maya.’
We sit there in silence for a while. I sense a slight thawing in our relationship. ‘It must be tough—your families …’
‘Hating each other? Yeah. Jesus, it’s total crap. I’m sick of being a Goldsworth. It’s like there’s this stupid legacy I need to carry around. I’m supposed to surf in a certain way, think in a certain way, go out with certain people. My dad’s as bad as Maya’s and he sees himself as the white hat in this feud. He’s the hippie soul surfer while Brad’s the big, bad capitalist. As far as I’m concerned they both suck.’
‘A plague on both your houses.’ I don’t expect him to catch the reference.
‘They have made worm’s meat of me.’ James fingers his black eye, his face bitter.
I shouldn’t be surprised that he knows his Shakespeare—he’s studying acting at TAFE after all. I looked into his background for my report.
‘Where would Maya go if she ran away?’
‘Apart from away from her dad?’ James’s eyes linger on the shore where lights are coming on in the houses. ‘I don’t know. All I can think of is she loves comedy. I mean, she loves surfing too, but she’s kind of over it. She’s been pushed too hard for too long. First the Australian titles, now he wants her to take the world titles. He’s reliving his glory days through her. But comedy, that’s something all her own—hers and mine.’
